wouldn't cut that for anything."

Mr. Ringgan laughed a pleased laugh. "Well, dear!" said he,
"it shall grow till it's as big as the house, if it will."

"It wont do that," said Fleda. "But I am very glad I have got
this bittersweet; this is just what I wanted. Now, if I can
only find some holly —"

"We'll come across some, I guess, by and by," said Mr.
Ringgan; and Fleda settled herself again to enjoy the trees,
the fields, the roads, and all the small handiwork of nature,
for which her eyes had a curious intelligence. But this was
not fated to be a ride of unbroken pleasure.

"Why, what are those bars down for?" she said, as they came up
with a field of winter grain. "Somebody's been in here with a
wagon. O grandpa! Mr. Didenhover has let the Shakers have my
butternuts! — the butternuts that you told him they mustn't
have."

The old gentleman drew up his horse. "So he has!" said he.

Their eyes were upon the far end of the deep lot, where, at
the edge of one of the pieces of woodland spoken of, a
picturesque group of men and boys, in frocks and broad-brimmed
white hats, were busied in filling their wagon under a clump
of the now thin and yellow-leaved butternut trees.

"The scoundrel!" said Mr. Ringgan, under his breath.